Rise To Power
by Captain Tea
Summary: Harry Potter is born in the summer of 1980, 35 years after the last War. Peace in his time was promised, but may not be provided. Voldemort met his end at the hands of fate on Samhain, 1981. But now, in 1991, a famous French alchemist is found dead. The French Senate blames Britain for the murder... and theft. Tensions rise in Europe. And in Nurmengard, an old man plots. [AU]
1. 1991, June 17 - HARRY I

**_1991, June 17 - Harry I_**

 _JUNE 16, 1991: THE END OF THE HAMFIELD-HECKLER-DESPIERRE ERA_

 _THIS JUST IN from Amsterdam: negotiations for a continuation of the 1955 HHD Coal and Steel Agreement has failed. The final meeting between representatives from the United Kingdom, the French Republic and West-Germany took place yesterday, on June 15, at 17:00 London time. Our experts have analyzed the negotiations and following breakdowns to report an accurate report of the causes AND consequences. Pages 1, 2, 3, 4, 7 and 8._

Harry was 11, and had no opinions on politics or coal and steel negotiations. He didn't even know what coal and steel was used for. In fact, he didn't really care about Muggle business at all, if he was to be rude and say it like it was. Mum wouldn't know anyway. If he could have had it his way (like he normally could), he would be at home right now, swooping lazily on a broom. Nothing beat the snoozy warmth of a summer day like the breeze above the treetops and freedom on a broom. Nothing!

But here he was, sitting in a beach chair on the side of a pool somewhere "not-too-far" from London. He didn't know where, because he'd looked at a map but he wasn't really good with maps, and they'd apparated here anyway, so it wasn't like it mattered. Such was the boredom of little Harry Potter that instead of swimming in the pool (how did his muggle aunt and uncle have a pool anyway? Their mansion didn't even have a pool, and they were "filthy-bloody-rich," as Dad used to say) he was reading yesterdays muggle newspaper. He hadn't been allowed to bring any books and he had no non-magical toys to take, and he definitely didn't want to play with his cousin. Dudley was fat and stupid and boring and would probably either try to beat him up or want to do something stupidly boring, like playing vimeo games on his felethone. No wonder muggles never amounted to something when they could be entertained by a little moving glass box. Even the ancient (and tiny) painting of his great-grand something aunt that hung in the alcove of their library he liked was more entertaining then that.

Sighing melodramatically, Harry flipped to page one, deciding to "educate yourself on something other than what you care about too, Harry. I know you like reading, but just reading about aurors and quidditch all day long won't get you far. How about some.." Actually, Harry thought, the more I think about uncle Remus' advice, the less I feel like reading. Lowering the newspaper, Harry eyed the pool critically. It stank of some kind of schemical and there was a wasp floating near one end. Slowly he raised the newspaper back up, like dad used to do with the Prophet, grimaced, and continued reading.

 _The Hamfield-Heckler-Despierre Coal and Steel Agreement was created in 1955 by the now famous Henry Hamfield, Heinrich Heckler and Robert Despierre, of the UK, West Germany and France respectively. The Agreement has been very beneficial to all three nations, as it has allowed for very beneficial trade opportunities and cooperative progress. Without it, experts agree that the UK would have a 12% lower GDP and our three nations joint steel manufacturing technology would be set back by at least a decade. Having been going strong for almost 40 years now, it was completely unexpected when France announced their decision to cut ties with the UK and Germany, as "the agreement is no longer beneficial to us." Our respective leaders immediately began emergency negotiations, but it appears it has been for naught. As of January 1, 1992, the Agreement will have been annulled and all the effects will have been removed. What this means for the future of our nation is unclear, but we have queried several experts on the matter._

 _Gilbert Clives, of the Conservative Party, was interviewed this morning before printing. " As you are now aware, the Steel Agreement has broken down and been discontinued. While we fully recognize the severity of such an action, we already did have measures in place in case of such an event, not completely unexpected, so there is no need to fear."_

 _"You say the situation was not fully unexpected. Does this mean the Government suspected the French would pull a..."_

 _"Now now, they didn't "pull" anything. It was entirely within reason and entirely legal for the French to wish to discontinue the deal, and as it was indeed no longer beneficial to them, we cannot blame them entirely. We would surely have done the same had a better opportunity arisen."_

 _"With that, do you mean there are alternatives to the HHD Agreement? Will cooperation with West-Germany continue? And what of the better opportunity you say France received, who are they working with now?"_

 _"Many questions, and a rather unclear situation. The French weren't entirely forthcoming, you must understand, only quite insistent that there were no possibilities for a continued deal. ... [On the HHD alternative] We do already have alternatives, you understand. The Americans are quite positive to possible cooperation and we have already begun drafting a possible agreement with Canada. West-Germany ... Yes, we will continue to work towards cooperation with the Germans, even if..."_

 _"And the French opportunity you mentioned? Can you say anything about that?"_

 _"The French have apparently kept some advances under wraps and are no longer dependent on either us nor Germany. In addition, they have apparently manufactured some sort of deal with Spain and the Benelux countries, which is... There is still much to be considered about the situation and that is all we could reveal at the time."_

 _As you can see from our interview, strange things are happening. Our interviewer got the impression from Mr. Clives that there is some sort of troubling deals happening between France, Spain and the three Benelux countries, Belgium, Netherlands and Luxembourg. The news about continued cooperation with West-Germany and possible agreements with the United States and Canada is also a large positive for our economy. For a detailed analysis on the economical consequences of this event and possible future deals with the US/Canada, see page 4. Beneath this advertisement from our sponsors follows an interview with a Labour man, also present for the negotiations. On page 7 and 8 is a detailed timeline covering the..._

"What are you reading there, Harry?" asked James Potter, lifting the newspaper out of his grasp and scanning the pages. He pulled a face. "Muggle politics? How droll. Did a wee bit of sunshine fry your brains out?"

Harry turned around in the chair and glared at his father. "No, it wasn't the _sunlight_ that fried my brains." He glared at the living room window. The sun glare was too strong for it to be see-through, but he knew his mother was in there having tea with his aunt. There'd be a fellyvision making lots of noises and his uncle would no doubt be complaining about this or that. Judging by the paper, probably the French. His uncle owned a metalworking company, he knew. It'd be funny if some French people made uncle Vernon lose his job. He'd go so purple it'd be permanent, and he'd blow up for sure. Harry had seen him angry once before when they had visited, before his parents had quickly ushered him out and they had left, and he hadn't seen a man look so much like an eggplant ever since.

"Now, now," James said, "there's no need to be such a muggle hater. If you don't watch out, your hair will turn into lard and you'll transform into a Malfoy!" It didn't look like his dad disagreed with Harry's feelings though, he thought. In fact, judging by the longing look James threw at the crystal skies, he probably shared exactly Harry's longing. If there was one man in the world that loved the skies and brooms more than he did, it was his dad.

"I'm not hating on them," Harry said, grimacing. "They're just... boring and stupid, and I'd much rather be flying. What kind of sane people reads stuff like that, anyway?" Harry waved his hand at the paper James was still holding. "Even the Daily Prophet has more interesting writing than that rubbish there!"

James laughed, and folded up the paper. "Maybe that's true, but it's still not nice to call them boring and stupid." His father was smiling though, so he knew he wasn't entirely serious. "Now how about you come inside and have some cake before we go home? You'll get your brains fried for real if you stay much longer... or at least sunburnt... Mum wouldn't be very happy with you if that happened."

Harry made a noncommittal sound that he thought sounded like an agreement but also "I-don't-wanna-see-the-muggles-I-wanna-stay-here," but still ended up getting out of the chair and following his dad across the lawn. He didn't really just want to sit there and stare at the pool either, and now his dad had taken the paper too. The main article was super boring but he had been a bit excited for the timeline and... _the cartoons_! Harry made a little sound he hoped was like a sad sob, but judging by James' snort as he walked in front, it failed miserably.

Entering through the sliding glass patio door, which was much worse than the enchanted wind-door they had in their pavilion, they found themselves in a roomy and airy living room. There was a coffee table covered in small plates with biscuits and cakes, and several pots of tea. Harry thought the Dursley part of the family didn't like the Potter part that much at all, but they still didn't hold back on the fineries when they were guested there. The Dursleys had never visited Potter Manor - Harry wondered if they'd be jealous if they did. Uncle Vernon may earn a lot of money and their house was quite nice - for muggles - but _they_ had _old money_ , which was the best kind. Uncle Sirius had said so. Not that Harry wanted the Dursleys in his house, anyway.

"Ah," said Uncle Vernon, turning away from the fellyvision. He had a cup of fine china, but he held it like a plebeian (as the painting of Grandaunt Dorothea would say). "There you are, James. And you've brought young Harry!" Uncle Vernon got out of his chair (he did seem to have a bit of trouble, as he was a bit plump), and came over to them. He then took Harry's hand and shook it, surprising him. When Uncle Vernon pulled away, there was two crisp fifty-pound notes in his hand. "Buy yourself something nice," Uncle Vernon said, and winked. Then he clapped his arm over James' shoulder and lead him to the couch, where he sat them down. Harry stood around awkwardly for a moment before he sat down in the armchair next to his mum. It was quiet for a moment.

"Dudley isn't here?" Harry said, hoping he didn't sound to hopeful.

"Not today, I'm afraid," said Aunt Petunia, and sat her cup of tea down on the table. She tried to hold it properly, unlike Uncle Vernon, but Harry could see she wasn't very good at it. Neville's grandma had smacked his fingers too many times for holding it wrong when visiting for him not to instantly spot the mistakes. "He's visiting a friend today. It's not too often he gets to be around kids his own age, you know," she said, turning away from Harry and to Lily, "since we're so busy all the time. Poor Dudders doesn't connect so well to the other kids as school either, so he ends up alone most of the time." Aunt Petunia looked into her cup and fell silent.

"So what about them French bastards, eh?" Uncle Vernon said as he turned the fellyvision off. "Stirring up trouble, ruining business… we never should have trusted those slimy…"

"Vernon!" Aunt Petunia interrupted, looking shocked and carefully eyeing Harry and Lily.

Harry looked over at his mum to see her reaction, but she only laughed. "He'll be going to boarding school in two months, he'll hear worse the first night… no, on the train there, I'm sure. There's no need to worry about censuring yourself, Vernon." Harry wondered if his mum has said this just to placate the muggles. Normally she was quite strict about bad words, and if Harry had said what Uncle Vernon did she'd Scourgify his mouth. How unfair!

"I saw the paper," said James, "you're completely right. They are up to no good, and we know it too." It was as if a little uncomfortable wind had blown in the window without rustling the drapes, making everyone shift in discomfort and halting the flow of conservation for a moment as everyone spent a moment to consider how to save it.

"The frogs are acting up… on your end, too? That can't mean well. I thought it was only economical, but…" Uncle Vernon let his words die out as he drained the coffee from his cup. Without saying anything, Aunt Petunia slipped a piece of lemon cake onto a plate and handed it to Harry. He didn't really want lemon cake, he'd much rather have some of those nougats in the crystal bowl, but when he looked longingly at them his mum glanced at him sharply and he settled down with the cake.

"Oh no, there's definitely something dodgy going on. For the last few weeks we've been watching all our French visitors, and we've got some people… I shouldn't say, really." Looking over at his dad, Harry saw he looked a bit sheepish about something. Maybe he wasn't supposed to tell the muggles Auror stuff. Maybe if he distracted them with a news-story from France he'd seen, they'd forget.

"I saw in the Prophet that the French are blaming us for an attack on one of their philosophers or something. I dunno why they care so much, but he," Harry said, before he noticed his dad sending him an angry (very) glare, so he quickly stuffed his mouth with cake and looked down.

"Ah," said James rather awkwardly, "a couple of weeks ago some very important French… person was attacked and killed, and they are blaming our entire nation for what may or may not have been a single individual. I always knew they didn't have their heads right on over there."

"With the French, it wouldn't bloody surprise me. I like to keep me a close eye on the news, and its been obvious for the past year or two that they are cutting ties with us. The fact that they refused to build that bloody chunnel should be saying something! We, and they too, have been wanting it for a ruddy century, and all of a sudden 'it's not a key concern'? If it turns out they've stabbed us in the back, it wouldn't surprise me the least!" Uncle Vernon now had some faint purple hues here and there and Harry thought his mum looked a bit concerned. Before anything could happen, Aunt Petunia grabbed the pot of coffee and filled up Uncle Vernon's cup. A grunted thanks was all he gave before he drained it, seemingly unconcerned with what Harry was sure was steaming hot.

"We never should have helped those darn frogs when the krauts tried to show them a lesson. Them and their arrogance…" And that was that. Uncle Vernon leaned back in the couch and calmed back down, and the topic shifted to more pleasant things. After the adults had talked about both the weather and the fox with dwarf tapeworms found in Essex last weekend, Aunt Petunia questioned Harry a bit on his schooling and he patiently answered as un-magically as possible.

An hour or so later, after Harry had finally gotten his hands on the nougats in the crystal bowl and eaten every last bit, the Potters bid their goodbyes and left through the front door. The Dursleys did not offer to walk them to their car, as they knew they had none. Once they had walked a little while away from the house, James cast some sort of spell to limit the sound, grabbed Harry's arm and with a crack and a million colors, they were gone.


	2. 1991, June 2 - VOLDEMORT I

**1991, June 2 - Voldemort I**

Quirinus Quirrel was such an incompetent fool. That was exactly why he could not be allowed to interfere tonight. The night of the second of June was not a particularly powerful night - perhaps he should have waited until Midsummer, but he could not. What he wished for was here, close and within reach. He need only reach out and take it! _It was his!_

On the last day of May, as the fifth moon died, two nights before, Quirinus Quirrel had participated in murder most vile and gruesome. Seven maidens had he had, unwillingly, thirteen boys not yet men had died. The power ran through him still, strengthening the frail and sickly body. The ritual had given Voldemort such unprecedented control and magical ability through his lowly puppet, and he truly appreciated the feeling of power yet again.

Then, in the twilight hours of this very night, Quirinus, ever the faithful servant, had gone into the Schwartzwald and slain a unicorn at his command, eagerly licking and sucking the juices from the still-warm corpse. If Voldemort would describe to one that had never tasted it, how silver unicorn blood felt on the lips, he would say it was the kiss of a maiden not yet flowered, a fountain of blood from a source so utterly pure, a thousand voices pleading for their life and the orgasmic feeling of a life ended by your hand and their weeping soul running through your fingers. Bitter, sweet, tangy and irresistible, not only did it tear at your soul and taint you forever, it had addictive powers beyond anything imaginable. Perhaps a thousand young innocent veela combined could begin to compare, but he doubted it. Voldemort had experienced the joys of flesh and mind, and nothing between heaven and earth could compare. He had never appreciated the opinions that said unicorn blood was dangerous before. He'd considered it despicable, but perhaps necessary if he was desperate. Now he saw clearer: this was the greatest challenge he had ever faced: tearing his soul had been easy, his first kill had been a joy, fighting his way out of the collapsing Potter house after his destruction had been utterly painful and challenging, but this - was he a weaker man he would have stayed in the forest forever, running wild on four legs chasing the unicorns like a beast, chained by mortal desire. No, he dare not touch this substance ever again: not even he, the Great Lord Voldemort, could resist it twice. Of that he was sure.

But that was the past. Still the ghosts of innocence and virginity haunted his lips, but he resisted sending out Quirrel's tongue for a cursory lick. A speck would cage his mind, he was certain. This was the Alps, and it would probably be in Switzerland. Not that he cared. The Romans in Italy were weak, chained by their traditions and fashions two thousand years out of date. If it was Germany or France mattered little, as they too had weak wizards now, corrupted and degenerated. They had all decayed, and none could threaten him now. No-one could resist Lord Voldemort, and after tonight, they would again know it to be true. They had forgotten why his name was feared and worshiped, forgotten his true power. He'd show them, he'd show them all, and first of them would be Dumbledore. Hogwarts would be empty in the summer, no next generation wizards there to be scarred and hurt by the battle that would go down. If he entered through the Chamber, he would be able to strike the old fool down before he even knew him to be there. He'd prefer blasting through the main doors, but then he'd have to fight the other staff, too... Decisions, decisions.

Returning to the task at hand, Voldemort took in the views. Above, nestled in a hidden vale between two peaks, lay a beautiful house. Climbing rose vines in the high alps, gravity-defying glass panes, cherry blossoms in full-bloom, it was as magical as you could get. Below it lay a massive wall, as thick as any citadel, forty meters high and polished as smooth as a … well, he was not here to wax poetically.

Snarling as best as Quirrel's lips allowed him to, he lifted the wand that didn't belong to him and let loose hellfire. Already he had warded the valley to prevent escape. The black fire ran up the wall as fast as the night itself, immediately immolating the house in wild fires. Voldemort pulled the magic around his servant and the shadows lifted him up and granted him flight. From above he could see the shimmering wards fighting off the hellfire, already beating it back and out. _Heh, the fools._

No incantation or wand movement was needed to summon a massive fireball from above, thundering down on the house. When it hit the wards it spun and shot fires and sparks - already the mountainsides were lit up and the sky was aflame above. A mighty crash signaled the fall of the wards and the fireball exploded into chunks, tearing into the bedrock below as spluttering lava. Voldemort descended into the house, interior yet untouched by fire. Landing neatly in a ruined and scorched room, Voldemort cast his gaze about. There was a man, young and sprightly, looking no more than 50. That, Voldemort knew, was a lie.

"Flamel," he spat, cursing at the weak voice of his host.

"Voldemort," the ancient alchemist replied, holding his wand almost casually. "I must say, you took your time. I've been expecting you for a decade." Flamel did not look particularly worried about his impending fate. He didn't even look judgmental or enraged, which Voldemort had found was common reactions to his presence among his opponents. Nor was there any fear.

"Meticulously planning for the death of the oldest man in the world takes time, Flamel," Voldemort said. " _Avada Kedavra_!" The spell, Voldemort's signature spell, was fired as fast as a human possibly could fire it. Not castable non-verbally, Voldemort had mastered the absolute fastest pronunciation possible. Flame had no hope to escape or survive tonight. The moment the killing curse left his wand, he started another.

The three killing curses he'd fired thundered down towards Flamel with the whooshing sound of impending death. It saddened Voldemort to be forced to destroy such knowledge, such wisdom. Flamel was a treasure to Wizardom and killing him would be a shame. It would not be now, however, as wooden spears flew out of the ground and intercepted the curses. Voldemort used his off-hand to wave away the deadly shrapnel before it could be a threat.

"If that is what you planned for, you will be sorely let down, young man," Flamel said, and then went on the attack. At first it was standard - Flamel fired cutters, bonebreakers, reductors and even a stunning hex. Voldemort batted them aside with ease, enjoying how the Dark Magic sang in his veins already. Possibly did Flamel sense it, for he adopted a most disturbed expression. "What … what _have_ you done?"

Then it seemed Flamel had been convinced to cease toying and he immediately broke into a Classic Dumbledore. He had been the old fool's mentor, he supposed. In seconds Voldemort found himself blasting direwolves and charging stags out of the air as the rubble and even the floor below him turned into rampaging animals. Flamel waved his wand and a wave of water rose from nothing, rushing forward to envelop him.

"Dumbledore's non-lethal tactics will not work here," Voldemort spat. "My gracious host is already lost to you, so spare me the self-righteousness." Voldemort froze the water and blasted it back, several shards tearing through Flamel's robes and drawing blood. "You bleed red!" Voldemort shouted in glee. He fired off several dark cutters, a spell one of his followers had designed, as a distraction. Meanwhile the entire remaining floor at once slithered and hissed. Attack him! Kill him! Tear him apart!

Flamel was not fool enough to fall prey to the snake trap and a wave of magic disintegrated them in their charge. A silence fell in the room as the fight came to a lull.

"You will not get the Stone, Voldemort," Flamel said, tiredly. "You are already too late."

"You lie," Voldemort hissed as best he could, even as Quirrel's body weakened. He had to pull on the Dark energies to rejuvenate and prevent entropy even as they stood there speaking. "I will not have it! Present me the stone!" _Crucio!_

The Cruciatus smashed into the wall where Flamel had stood the moment before, but he was no longer there. Voldemort cried out in pain as he found Quirrel's body flying forwards, crashing into a cabinet. The glass ripped his skin and he could feel the warmth of blood soaking his robes.

"You dare!?" Voldemort snarled, and a whip of fiendfyre lashed towards Flamel. It met an arcane sword, ominously hovering, and wrapped itself around it. With a cry of extortion, Voldemort pulled on the whip and the sword went flying, slicing through a wall and disappearing into the night.

"You cannot be very dependent on my Stone, if you are use Dark fyres against me. It shall not stand such evil, and we would both be without it." Flamel seemed more certain in his survival now, and stood straighter. Before Voldemort could retort, a charge of lightning slammed against his reflexive shield. The thunder rolled down the valley, echoing up the mountainsides.

"As you wish, Master Flamel," Voldemort said. He cracked his whip towards Flamel, but it only vaporized the floor where the man had stood a moment before. Then Voldemort let the flames die to nothing. "Now DIE!" he shouted, but Quirrel's voice cracked at the volume and the effect weakened. Still Flamel's eyes widened as black chains blinked into existence and threw him into a wall, wrapping themselves tightly around him.

Voldemort stepped towards the bound and downed Flamel. The old man was struggling with the chains, but could not get loose. Voldemort let out a high cackle.

"Now," he said, "where is the Stone?" The first syllable in the Cruciatus was on his lips when a searing pain took him from behind, and he looked down in shock; a silver spear ran through his heart. Turning slowly, Voldemort felt rage beyond rage cloud his mind even as blood began to pour from his mouth. A wave of Quirrel's wand vanished the spear, and another cauterized the wounds. It hissed and smoke and the pain was unimaginable, but Voldemort would persevere.

There stood Flamel, casting some sort of long spell. A quick glance behind him showed the chains were empty. Had they always been, or was it some other trick? Voldemort didn't know, but he'd force it from Flamel once he was defeated. "After this," Voldemort said, gesturing at the hole in his robes, "you'll be begging for death."

Before Flamel could finish whatever incantation he was casting, Voldemort let loose a barrage of spells. Flamel nimbly avoided them all, continuously chanting and waving his wand. An ancient Peruvian charm spawned a cloud of darkness to obstruct Flamel's vision and Voldemort immediately followed it up with a Cruciatus and a vicious cutter, disguised in the slipstream of the bright red Crucio.

Flamel avoided the Crucio but not the cutter in its wake, and his left foot left him with a sickening squelch. Flamel tumbled to the floor with a desperate cry, wand tumbling from nerveless fingers. A flash of magic burst outwards as the chant was interrupted, throwing Voldemort backwards and knocking down several walls. He remained standing, however, pleased with Quirrel's apparent resistance to trauma. He summoned a whip, of vine and not flame, and struck Flamel hard enough to sever his robe and drive him backwards on the floor.

"Do you see the futility of resisting Lord Voldemort now, fool?" Gloating, after so long, felt very good. And now, for his favorite part of any duel. _Crucio!_

Flamel was thrown backwards as he screamed in pain. His body, limp, hit the still standing back wall, and a blood-red stone tumbled from his pocket. In the same moment the alchemist wandlessly summoned his wand and directed a bolt of lightning directly at Voldemort. Quickly shielding, Voldemort was driven backwards still, head reeling from the sound and force.

" _Reducto,"_ Voldemort cast, smashing into the floor by Flamel's torso. It tore away the wood and also smashed several ribs and tore away the robe and skin, and blood began to flow freely in earnest. Flamel weakly transfigured a wall of stone to block his next Cruciatus, but another Reductor broke the wall and shards of rock crashed into Flamel, seemingly dazing him. Another cutter removed his hand at the wrist, falling to the floor with the wand still gripped in it. Voldemort summoned the wand and slipped it into a pocket.

"Mine!" Voldemort said triumphantly, finally striding forwards towards his prize. When Flamel weakly tried to reach for the Stone, Voldemort waved his hands and threw the alchemist out of the room, tumbling into the darkness and fires outside. In a flash of burning intensity, the body vaporized. So long, had he waited for this. No longer would he be a thrall to Quirrel's puny body. The Stone gleamed in the firelight and it looked so much like blood and life that Voldemort felt moved, even as he reached to pluck it.

Then it was gone, in an intense burst of Phoenix-fire. To his credit, Voldemort didn't scream in outrage or blast the surroundings to kingdom come with his released anger. The Dark Lord only stood there, in a crumbled and burning house deep in the Alps, empty eyes staring north, north to Scotland. As the flames climbed higher, the body of Quirinus Quirrel crumbled into dust and vanished in the wind. Two wands clattered to the only piece of stable floor left in the burning inferno.


End file.
